


A Kind Stranger

by Fancifullauren



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Occupy Wall Street, Relationship Development
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras stumbles upon an Occupy Wall Street protest; not being one to pass up a good ol'-fashioned civilian revolt, he jumps in.  However, things go awry when the police show up.  Luckily for him there is someone in the crowd who has taken a liking to him, and is able to nurse him back to health.  </p><p> </p><p>(You have no idea how close this was to being called "Occupy Enjolras's Pants")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike most of my fluff, I actually tried to keep this in-character. Excessive description of Enjolras's general perfect-ness is a shoutout to Grantaire's (and Victor Hugo's) massive man-crush on him. Enjoy! x

Enjolras was amidst the fray of angry men and women, holding up signs and shouting of injustices that have been brought upon them. Of course, he was the loudest of them all, shouting so that everyone was taken by his passionate voice. 

When he had woken up this morning, he hadn't planned on this at all, but being Enjolras, he couldn't pass up a good protest, and within an hour he already had a devout following; though this is not at all surprising for someone of his infectious charm and wit. The crowd is moved by his impassioned words, ready to do just about anything at his command. All those in his vicinity fell victim to his fervent siren’s song, none more so than a dark-haired young man in ripped jeans and a faded tee. He was the perfect antithesis to the glowing Apollo, whose sweat shined upon his brow with a divine luminosity and whose speech tumbled straight from his flawless lips into the hearts of his audience. 

Grantaire, enraptured in the display, knew from the instant he saw him that he had fallen into love or madness – perhaps both, as the two frequently go hand in hand. The fire this complete stranger struck inside the cynic was shocking, yet unmistakable. What he initially perceived to be an effect of the alcohol he had consumed earlier he confirmed to be intense fascination.

It also went without saying that, when the police arrived to attempt to control the scene, the blond leader was the first to be singled out. He put himself in front of the people. The police, however, were interested only in crowd control, not custody, so they crowded him with their riot shields and shoved him back into his place among the tumultuous swarm. Enraged, he surged forward, reciting verbatim several laws that stated he had the right to be there.

His words were ignored. 

His actions were not. 

One officer swiftly pulled out pepper spray, blinding Enjolras, while another clubbed him over the head. And that is the last of what Enjolras remembers, as he had lost consciousness. 

When he awoke again several hours later, his head was pounding and his vision was blurry. He could feel gauze wrapped around his head. The air smelt of cigarettes and old wood, and he could barely make out that he was lying on a cheap cot in a corner of a tiny, decrepit room. There were half-finished paintings, brushes, and bottles strewn all over the old bookcase, desk, and bedside table, not to mention the heaps of sketches on the floor. Only a dim lamp illuminated the room, as no light came in from the window. He slowly raised himself into a sitting position, eliciting a series of screeches from the rusty bed springs, and rubbed his temples to try to dull the pain. 

Just then, the door opened with a groan, and a man stood in its wake. Enjolras immediately assumed him to be a vagabond considering his bare feet and unkempt appearance. 

“Oh, good,” said the young man, kindness in the light rasp of his breath, “you’re awake. You took quite the hit back there.” 

“What happened?” Enjolras groaned, his voice a ghost of its usual splendor. 

“You were at an Occupy Wall Street protest,” he began, “when the police came. You got pepper sprayed, and took a pretty hard blow to the skull.” 

Enjolras nodded as the memories slowly came back to him. 

“You were knocked out cold, so I dragged you back here. You've been sleeping here ever since. I didn't know if you had insurance, so I didn't want to take you to the hospital…” 

“How long was I out?” 

“Not too long. 6 hours now, I think. It’s midnight.” 

“Shit,” Enjolras cursed, “I’ve got class tomorrow.” 

“Where at?” Grantaire asked. 

“Columbia.” 

Grantaire whistled, impressed. “What’s a Columbia student doing up Wall Street?” 

“I was delivering letters to some stock broker. I run a student organization, you see – Les Amis de l’ABC. We’re a human rights group, so we had a letter-writing campaign to get the fat ones to stop hoarding their cash,” explained the young man, “but I never could resist an uprising, so of course I joined in when I saw it.” 

Grantaire scoffed and shook his head. “You’re a damned fool, Apollo.” 

“What did you just call me?” 

“Nothing. So what’s this student organization do?” He asked, pulling the rickety chair out from under the desk and straddling it. The room was so cramped that he couldn't be more than 3 feet away from Enjolras.

A spark of enthusiasm lit up across his face. “We fight for the rights of the people; namely, the redistribution of wealth. We are the voice of the common man, the light shining in the darkness; we will keep spreading our light until the world is illuminated. It’s amazing, really.” 

“You sound like a street-corner preacher,” quipped the cynic. 

“Far from it. We’re only small right now, but that’s only until the word takes hold. People are beginning to wake up. Don’t you see them rising up? Do you hear their shouts?” He was completely into his discourse now, his hands gesturing wildly as he passionately made his points. “We’re on the edge of a revolution, and the Amis are helping. We’re writing letters, raising awareness, making the people see what oppressive squalor they’re forced to reside in! But not for long. We will overtake our government, and reinstate a republic for the people - not just the rich and the privileged.” 

Grantaire had to fight down a mocking laugh. “Your little club will hardly change the system.” Despite – or, more likely, because of – the man’s overzealous, senseless optimism, Grantaire could feel himself almost falling under his charismatic spell. He definitely had him wrapped around his finger as far as attraction goes, but it would take more than flowery language from a silver tongue to undo the pessimism 22 years of cold, hard reality had taught him. 

And yet, he couldn't stop himself from getting excited by the beautiful man’s zeal. 

“Think what you might; just know that you are wrong,” replied Enjolras.

An uncomfortable silence passed between them. 

Finally, Enjolras spoke: “If you are so opposed to change, why were you at the protest?” 

“First of all, I’m not opposed to change, just people mindlessly going about it, combined with the fact that it will never be attained. I came to the protest because someone in my History of Modern Art class told me they were giving out free pizza.” 

“Are you an art major?” He asked, noticing the various canvases around him. 

“Yeah,” he said, happy to be talking about something that wouldn't make the perfect human’s face contort in anger, no matter to how _irresistibly_ sexy it was, “Graphic Design.” 

Enjolras’s eyes widened. “Hey, you wouldn't happen to be free Wednesday evening, would you?”

Grantaire smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Slow down, Orestes! Buy me a drink first at the very least. And tell me your name.” 

“I… no, um, that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, flustered, “It’s just that our last graphic designer graduated, and we've been putting up with Feuilly’s shitty flyers and posters for long enough. We meet Wednesday evenings.” A blush crept onto his cheeks. “My name is Enjolras, by the way.” 

“Grantaire. I was just fucking with you. I’d be honored to fuel your excessive sanguinity with my fabulous talent for art.” 

“Thank you. We meet at the Café Musain at 8.” 

Another uncomfortable silence. 

“I guess I haven’t properly thanked you,” Enjolras started, “for, you know, saving me. That was… nice.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“I should probably get going now.” The bandaged man tried to stand up, but he immediately regretted the decision when his head started swimming and he lost his balance. Grantaire shot up and caught him before he could hit the ground. 

“Easy now. I’m not letting you go anywhere like that.” He put him back on the bed. “I’m gonna go get you some water and something to eat, I’ll be right back.” Enjolras only just now noticed how hungry he was.

And with that, Grantaire strode out of the room in two long strides, only to return a moment later, plastic cup of water and an apple in hand. Moving the clutter aside, he put them down on the bedside table. 

“Thanks.” 

Watching Enjolras perform mundane tasks such as eating was like witnessing a stunning spectacle – to a wide-eyed Grantaire, at least, as he stared unashamed. Enjolras, slightly put off by the gaze, ate slowly. 

He placed the core on the table when he was finished, and proceeded to down the entire glass of water. He yawned. 

“Oh!” Grantaire exclaimed, “I’m sorry, I've been keeping you up. You need to get your rest. Go ahead and sleep.” He put his chair back under the desk and made for the door.

Enjolras settled himself into the scratchy wool blanket and closed his eyes, only to open them again as a thought struck him. “Wait – where will you sleep?” 

Grantaire’s hand paused on the doorknob. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” 

“ _Grantaire._ ” 

“ I've slept in much worse places than the floor; I think I’ll survive one night.” 

“Preposterous. I’m not invading your home and kicking you out of your bed.” 

“Well, I’m not letting my guest pass out on the ground, and I’m sure as hell not letting you loose in New York City in your current state, so there’s really only one other option.” 

Grantaire, fully clothed, crawled into bed with Enjolras. They had to lie sideways so they both would fit and it was, admittedly, quite awkward for both parties, especially considering the fact that Grantaire’s back was pressed up against the wall, and there was a fucking Greek god with a _damn_ sexy look of confusion facing him. 

Hoping to diffuse the crowded feeling he was getting, Grantaire reached out with both arms and pulled Enjolras into a strong, warm embrace. A surprised Enjolras responded by wrapping his arms around the brunette before his brain could register what was happening. Grantaire lightly kissed the blond hair in front of him. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras murmured into the larger man’s chest. 

“Hmm?” 

“Thank you – for everything. Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.” 

“Hush now. You need your sleep.” 

And the god obeyed. 

When he awoke to the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window, he was alone in the bed. He looked to his left only to find that Grantaire had moved to sleep on the floor during the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it! This is literally just the musings (read: word vomit) of an overworked college freshman.   
> Much love!   
> Lauren  
> xo


End file.
